Asylums
by frays
Summary: (AU, onexshot) "Geniuses most usually didn't find their way into mental institutions." / Stydia / For level two, part one of the Coppertone Wars Twelve Days of Christmas Challenge.


**Authors Note | Onexshot AU for part one of the second level of Coppertone Wars "The Twelve Days of Christmas" Challenge.**

**Disclaimer | I do not own Teen Wolf. **

**Summary | "Geniuses most usually didn't find their way into mental institutions." (Stydia)**

**.:.**

"She's going insane."

The three words were the ones Lydia Martin heard the most in her seventeen years of life, words that made her want to fall away from everything, everyone, and live blanketed in silence. She wanted to run away; she wanted to be freed from the harsh eyes of her mother, always judging her, always believing the inhuman shrieks of terror of which that echoed through the beautiful genius in the middle of the night were cries for attention rather than tremors of pain, pain so unbelievably vivid that it made her want to smother herself with the expensive pillows her mother had laid along her bed every morning.

She had tried so many times to smother herself after the nightmares would come, but her hands trembled and fell away when she lifted the pillow to stop her breathing finally. She was never strong enough—her mother always ran into her room as she threw the pillow away and gasped for air, making her mother believe she only wanted attention.

Her mother never believed the images of the undead man or the pain she would come to find before anyone near her died; her mother did not believe in magic. Her mother believed in science, and her mother believed that _whatever_ Lydia was was truly a teenage girl, wishing for more attention than she already received.

She used to be the most adored girl at Beacon Hills High—she used to be the girl that others would watch with either hate, admiration, or a combination of the two. She and Allison were wanted by the men of the school, watched enviously by the women, and feared by everyone in a way that made Lydia feel controlled, secure, like she was walking on air steeled so that she could not fall to the floor.

She fell from her throne the day she was hit by a speeding car, spinning off of the road through the hail and rain and crashing into the girl, trying to fix her umbrella.

The redheaded girl died, but was revived by what even doctors called a miracle, her heart stilled for too long for anyone to come back from.

She had been found with deep gashes over her body that her doctors dismissed as injuries from the car crash, looking more animal than anything being hit by a car could cause.

There were bite marks on her shoulder.

Her best friend and boyfriend were thrilled to find that the beautiful redheaded girl had survived, their happiness over her life stilted when they found the girl shrieking on the hospital cot, her wrists tied down against the rails so she wouldn't be able to hurt herself. The look in her eyes was feral, a glimmer of terrorized fear so cold it froze her bones underlying the madness.

They didn't see it, and they left her, screaming that she was a freak and running out of the hospital, taking no time to wait to inform everyone the beautiful girl of Beacon Hills High had gone insane, and had as much sanity as a rabid dog.

The rumor was believed by all, and the few who didn't believe she had gone mad were swayed when they saw Lydia the next day, her green eyes wide and rapidly looking about the halls, able to see secrets of the past being whispered to her as she walked, twisting her hands. She looked paler, and she was quieter than she had ever been, closing her eyes tightly as the occasion came and the thoughts filled with glory reverberated through the delicate walls of her genius mind.

No one believed she had any sanity left when she shrieked in the halls, the sound loud and pained enough to be heard throughout the school.

No one made the association that her shriek came moments before Sheriff Stilinski was strangled and killed by an unknown source.

Lydia hadn't found a single soul to stand next to her throughout her darkness—her father had left long ago, she was without siblings or friends, and her mother accused her roughly of crying for attention, what she thought to be cries of attention something she now thought to be insanity, and had spent weeks looking for a way to restore her daughter to what she had been so long ago.

There was no way to return Lydia to the glory of her past self—she was too badly damaged by her nightmares, so painful that it made her think time and time again killing herself was a better option.

**.:.**

"I'll miss you, Lydia."

Her mother's words were a whisper as she sent her daughter off to the asylum, what she believed to be the only way to get her daughter back, a rick at Lydia's life she seemed willing to take as the windows of the car rolled up, a car with bulletproof glass windows separating her from the man in the drivers seat taking her to the Beacon Hills Asylum.

Her mother was too scared to ride in a car with her; the driver feared she was so unstable that she would attack him—for what, she didn't understand, but she kept her gaze focused on him and his black-haired buzz cut.

She did not say goodbye to her mother; she did not look to her mother as she waved goodbye to her only child, bidding her a safe trip to the insane asylum.

Lydia looked to her phone, typing the passcode in softly and unlocking it, knowing even the phone would be taken from her within the time it took from her to arrive at the institution to the time she would be settled.

Her former best friend had posted that Lydia was going to the institution, followed by a ripple of laughing comments saying that it was safer that way, or that they were glad 'the freak' was gone.

'The Freak' was a nickname from Jackson Whittemore, something he had began to call her loudly when she would pass him in the halls or walk by his table in class, beginning a string of followers calling her the name on the lacrosse team, spreading to the full of the school until she was surrounded by people calling her a freak underneath their breaths when she would answer a question (always correctly) in class, the only time she talked presently.

She had not spoken to anyone but teachers, and only when she was spoken to since she turned sixteen, finding it easier to hopefully fade away than speak and be targeted for whatever she'd say by the people she used to love more than anything.

She never spoke, but her silence did nothing to stop the negative comments made towards her, the crowd of people telling her she was dangerous and to kill herself before she'd hurt someone, or the people simply laughing at her, all fearing her in a different way than they had when she was sitting atop her throne at the tops of the school.

An incoming comment from a boy she didn't know signaled that "The Freak" was online, stunning Lydia into turning her expensive phone off, slipping the window of the moving car open and letting it clatter and fall onto the floor of the freeway, rolled over and destroyed by a moving car.

Her fingernails dug into her palm, welling up crescents of blood underneath he oval nails, and she let out a cry of pain, her mind blanking for a moment.

For a moment, she forgot about the reason behind the pain of the nightmares she wanted to die, and she knew that physical pain was the easiest remedy.

**.:.**

Her nails had been cut short; her hair had been cut to her shoulders so that it still framed her face in vibrant red curls, but it would be impossible to strangle herself with. She hadn't been allowed shoes, her necklace of a cross, or even her socks—all she had was pure white underwear and a gown that smelled of plastic, the same gown every other patient walking the halls was wearing.

She stood out from every other patient—she was the youngest patient she had seen thus far, and her flaming hair was hard to miss. She attracted stares, but she was used to stares.

While she was little, while she was a queen, while she was a freak, and while she was a young patient of a mental institution now she had always been watched. The gazes were not always necessarily good, but attention was something she was bathed in with each passing day, and she learned how to ignore the gazes of the passerby watching her wherever the beautiful genius went.

Geniuses most usually didn't find their way into mental institutions.

Lydia held her head high—she could do nothing but ignore the cold, white walls that felt like they were closing in on her, constricting her, swallowing her. They were too blank, too toneless, too everything—they only reminded her that she was locked doors away from normal society, a place she didn't belong anymore.

_You'll have to get used to this place. It's your home now._

She felt as though she were made of stone and mechanics, walking with stiff shoulders as she sat in a corner, eating the food from the cafeteria—some sort of thick soup that she had to search hard to find a lick of flavor in, still near-absent when she shut her eyes.

No one came near her—she was young, and she was vibrant in a way that made her look like a different species than that of the rest of the patients.

Whispers floated around as to why the beautiful girl was here, many accusations of being some sort of murderer thrown around loudly in a way that made her cringe, trying to dig her nails into her knees in a way her painfully short nails would not allow anymore.

She stood up, turned away and ran away as quickly as she could, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble floors as she sprinted through the empty hallways, trying hard to find her room so she could curl herself in a mattress and cry into her pillows, pillows she knew would be bolted down to the bed, and a mattress she wasn't sure would be present.

She found the white door, the golden letters displaying 117. Her fingers curled around the knob, twisting it an pushing it to find her way inside, slamming the door behind her and letting herself slide along the door to the floor, burying her face into her knees.

She wouldn't let her tears fall; she was not alone.

Her green eyes were startled as she looked up at the boy with eyes fixated on her, the only boy she had seen her age in the institution. He seemed equally as surprised to see someone of his age, and watched her with brown eyes that seemed to be almost adoring, somehow recognizing.

Did he know her?

She didn't speak—she only watched the boyish brunette, his light skin and smile making him look perfectly ordinary, innocent and happy. He looked like the type of person that would make you laugh, and the type of person your parents would want you to marry because by simply looking at him you could see he was _good_.

She had no idea why someone like him would be there—it was the same question everyone had for the redhead, but she had a reason she was sure he could discover quickly after they both fell asleep.

"Lydia?"

She didn't recognize him—he seemed to have a face she had seen before, but she couldn't place where she had seen him before.

Her eyes wandered to the only possession he had, a dented gold badge of a sheriff. It looked familiar, and she frowned slightly, her genius mind turning its gears quickly, her eyes going back to his face.

"Stiles?"

It was the first time she had spoken in years, and the adoring boy seemed surprised that she remembered him in the slightest, watching her with a look of both gratefulness, alarm, surprise, and hope.

She hadn't seen the boy since the day his father had died, but she remembered well the unrequited love he had always held for her, always offering to buy her lunch or help her out with anything she seemed to struggle with, watching her from afar with eyes filled with pure adoration.

She was never worth his love, but he had protected her whenever she seemed to be in danger up to the day she screamed in the halls, signaling Stiles' father had died.

From the look in his brown eyes, it was obvious that the boy still loved her.

"Wha—why are you here?" His brown eyes were welled with concern, his eyebrows furrowed lightly together as he watched her, walking to where she was sitting on the floor, sliding down on the door next to her, watching her with eyes so filled with a concern for her safety and sanity she hadn't seen since the accident, making her want to cry only more.

He had never been so close to her.

He slipped her hand into hers, and she let her head fall onto his shoulder, finally allowing herself to cry.

**.:.**

Lydia woke from a dream of torture, the painful images numbing her mind and weakening her, filling her with a terror so vivid she was unsure if she was still dreaming when she woke. Her fragile heart beat fast, and she tried to sit up, but her wrists were bound—by once, not by a leather tie or string strapping her down to the bed.

Stiles was leaning over her, his brown eyes welled with concern as he pinned her wrists down to the bed, leaning over her and letting his brown eyes lock with her green eyes, making sure the crazed girl was looking him in the eyes.

"Lydia, look at me. No one is here. You're fine. I'm here—no one else is here. Just me. You're safe." He waited for her breathing to calm and for the size of her pupils to normalize before letting go of her wrists, surprised when the redhead threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and embracing him tightly, trying to clear her mind of the vivid fear running through her that haunted her and terrified her.

"I didn't mean to wake you up." She whispered, waiting for him to slip out of his stun and wrap his arms around her, something he did in time, running a hesitant hand to smooth her hair over, pulling her so that she was lying again on the bed with his arms wrapped around her and her head into his chest.

He had to remind himself time and time again that this was for _Lydia_, and shouldn't have been taking an physical liberties in wrapping his arms tightly around the girl he had loved from afar from years, trying to dull out the smell of vanilla from her hair and skin, salty from the tears that had slipped her lovely green eyes.

He wouldn't let anyone harm her—dream or otherwise.

"That's fine, Lydia."

"How did you wake up?"

"You shrieked and punched the wall." Lydia looked at her slender fingers, only then noticing the way the knuckles were split and stained with blood, shrugging lightly and letting her head rest on his chest, falling asleep instantly.

Stiles took a shaky breath inwards, his eyes fixated on the beautiful girl sleeping on his chest.

He watched her until the sun rose—he watched her always, too protective of the strawberry blonde to let anyone harm her again. It was too painful to watch her in even a breath of discomfort, and he wanted to keep her safe always.

It wasn't his job, but he didn't know if he'd be able to bear it if she was ever hurt by anything or anyone.

**.:.**

The first time Lydia kissed Stiles was in a September.

He remembered it clearly—he remembered dreaming of kissing the beautiful girl, and wondering if it was only another dream when Lydia leant over on the bench they always sat at during meals and kissed him softly on the lips.

He had been having a panic attack, one so bad he was trembling and stammering, hardly able to get a legible word in, the only ones he could making no sense.

Stiles didn't have a clue what had triggered the panic attack—all he remembered was having trouble getting a single breath in, and the beautiful genius leaning over to lay her impossibly soft lips on his, letting them linger on his lips and causing him to hold his breath, too entranced in capturing the moment to think to breathe or move—he only let their lips touch, then pulling away with normalized eyes, watching her as though she was his angel.

In a way, she was.

The panic attacks that had begun the day his father had died were the reason he was inside the asylum—he had no family left to take care of him, so the officials at his fathers office decided it would be better to send him away with the dead hope of Stiles returning to normal.

He never came back, but Lydia slowly cured him.

**.:.**

They were released in five years, both twenty-two years young and more vibrant than they had been when they entered—the institution had done nothing for either of them, but they slowly saved each other from the darkness of the insanity consuming the both of them, curing each other and saving each other.

The redheaded girl was walking with a hand intertwined with the brunette boys, not speaking to each other. They were both young, but they had spent so much time together that they could understand each other without works—they understood each other in simple movements or expressions, and they knew each other better than they knew themselves.

They were called insane or freaks still, but the rest of the world was dim—they had each other to hold and love, and they had someone next to them that would always save them when they had a moment of darkness.

Lydia and Stiles would have lost hold of life and reality both alone, but they both found the love they truly needed through each other and they were satisfied with the love they had found.

It was all they had ever, and would ever need.

**.:.**

**Question Of The Day:**

**What is your favorite movie? **(Forrest Gump is mine)

M**y** r**e**v**i**e**w** b**o**x **i**s **h**u**n**g**r**y—f**e**e**d** i**t**!**!**!


End file.
